Reilly's Luck (1970) (6 page)

Suddenly three Indians moved at once, and the drummer, firing with almost negligent ease, dropped two of them and dusted the third.

Then, very deliberately, he picked up a chunk of slate and tossed it into the air, smashed it with a bullet, and smashed one of the pieces before it could touch the ground.

Will Reilly chuckled, and picking up an empty bottle, tossed it into the air, smashed it, then smashed the neck while the drummer broke one of the fragments.

Sponseller called out: "What the hell you fellers doin', play-actin'?"

Hoping some Apache would understand what he said, Will Reilly yelled back in English, and repeated it in Spanish. "We've got forty rifles an' two thousand rounds of ammunition, so we might as well have some fun!"

One Indian, who lay in plain sight where he had fallen, suddenly leaped up, blood showing on his skull, and made a dive for shelter among the rocks.

Val shot ... he never knew whether he hit the Indian or not, for four rifles spoke as one and the Indian threw up his hands and plunged forward against the slope, then rolled over twice and lay sprawled, arms flung wide.

Val turned. "I want a drink," he said to Will.

Reilly looked at him and was about to speak when Downs spoke from the corner of his mouth. "Boy, you forget it. That's the one thing we ain't got any of!"

Chapter
Four.

The sun was high, the few clouds disappeared, the heat in the bottom of the canyon grew oppressive. No Apache showed along the rock walls. The five remaining horses stood in their harness, heads drooping, unable to leave, for they were still hitched to the overturned stage by one trace chain.

The Apaches evidently needed the horses, for they made no attempt to kill them. Nor did they make any further attempt to dare the fire power of the little group behind the stage.

But the Apaches knew they were out of water. Among the first shots they had fired had been the ones at the waterbags suspended beside the boot. So they had only to wait--and an Apache can be as patient as a buzzard.

Pete was dead--there was now no doubt of that. The miner, whose name turned out to be Egan Gates, had been wounded twice.

Val loaded the miner's gun, and replaced it for him. "That's a good lad," Gates said. Then he looked closely at Reilly. "You any kind of an Injun, Reilly?

"Why?"

"There's water yonder." He pointed north of their position.

"There's a spring over there, but there's a tank up yonder in the rocks."

"Don't try it." Bridger Downs was emphatic. "You'd never make it. Once it gets dark they'll draw the net tight around us. You wouldn't have a chance."

A slow hour passed, and then another. Only one shot was fired, and that was from the Apache side.

There was no sound from Sponseller, and from their position they could not see him. Whether he was alive or dead they had no way of knowing.

Slowly the day grew cooler. Shadows began to reach out from the rock walls. Val lay against the earth, feeling his heart beat, and listening to the sounds. Would they ever get out alive? He tried to remember the stories he had heard. There were not many who had escaped the Apaches ... but there had been a few.

His mouth was dry, so dry he could scarcely swallow. Will picked a smooth pebble from the sand. "Put this in your mouth, Val. It will keep you from being so thirsty."

The pebble felt cool, almost cold. Saliva began to flow, and he did feel better.

A star came out, and the night air grew more chilly. Will glanced over at the woman. "Ma'am, did you have anything to eat with you?"

"Yes, there's some bread and coffee, and some jerky."

"There's some'at in my parcel in the boot," the miner offered. "You can get at it easier, but without water it won't help much."

Val thought of the olla back at the stage station, and its deliciously cool water. Then he tried to forget it and think about other things. He tried to remember Myra, but the only thing he could recall was her voice, how harsh it had sounded on that last night.

More stars came out, and they seemed like distant campfires on the field of the night sky, as though a vast army camped out there, far away.

Will Reilly sat up, wrapping his arms about his knees. "Don't worry, Val," he said easily. "I have been in worse spots. Although not many," he added, more grimly. "At least, they won't attack us in the night."

He added, "When this is over I think it will be time to go east again."

Val said suddenly, "I might he able to crawl to the water."

Will looked at him. "You'd try it, too, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Don't. That would be dangerous, even for an Indian."

"I'm small, sir. I take up less room than you, sir, or any of the others. When I lived with the Schmitts, we used to play Indian all the time. I could crawl and hide better than anybody."

"You just wait."

"We need water, sir. I know there'd be Indians there, but they wouldn't be looking for a boy."

"No," Will Reilly said firmly.

Then Val slept, and when he awoke it was very cold. He dug himself deeper into the sand and tried to turn his jacket collar higher. For a long time he lay awake, thinking about the rocks where Egan Gates had said the water was. They formed a steep wall, but they were very broken, with cracks and chimneys everywhere; there were fallen rocks all down the mountainside. A boy could hide where a man would have no chance.

Val would never forget that night. The stars seemed brighter and closer than they ever had, or ever would again. Presently he heard a vague stirring, and then what sounded like a scuffle.

After that there was somebody panting nearby, and he heard Bridger Downs's voice. "In the side ... I don't think it's bad. He had the same idea I had."

"Did you kill him?"

"I killed him. Oh, he was tough and slippery. He got the knife into me slick as a whistle, but I grabbed his wrist and held on while I clobbered him with my fist. Then I got hold of his throat, dug my fingers in, and smashed his head against the rocks."

"How are the horses?"

"They seemed all right, but they'll be needin' water."

Finally Val slept again, and was awakened by the slam of a gunshot, and he saw Will holding one of the new rifles. The drummer was loading another. "I thought our little demonstration of shooting might scare them off," he said.

Will lit the stub of his cigar with his left hand. "Apaches don't scare worth a damn," he said. And he added, "Although they take notions."

"Notions?"

"Watch for their chief. If you kill their chief they'll back off until they've chosen another. They might leave altogether."

There was no attack, and no Apaches were seen. Val grew restless. He thought the Indians were probably gone. His mouth was parched and his skin was hot, but he did not complain. Nobody else was complaining, and he was determined not to be the first.

They waited, sleeping by turns. It was midafternoon before Will Reilly suddenly reached over and shook Downs awake. "They're coming."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure. They've been filtering down from the rocks, working closer and closer. I think they're going to try a rush."

Egan Gates pulled himself up, his face white and strained. The miner had lost blood, and the lack of water was not helping him.

Will turned to Val. "You and Dobie load. Make every move count now. I believe they're planning to do us in."

When they came it was from scarcely thirty yards off. They seemed to spring directly out of the rocks. They fired a volley and charged.

All the guns were loaded, and the Apaches were met by a crashing volley, the men firing as fast as they could work the levers on their rifles. Val knew the attack would have to be beaten back or they would not survive, and he emptied his rifle as swiftly as possible.

Three Apaches made the circle of rocks. A barrel-chested one vaulted the rocks from behind and rushed at Will's back, a knife in his hand.

Val, unable to think what to do, threw his rifle at the Indian's legs, and the man stumbled and went to his knees. Both boys leaped on him, Dobie striking hard with a rock.

The Apache threw them off and lunged to his feet. They grabbed his legs and he swung down with a knife at Val's back. Will, hearing the scuffle behind him, wheeled and fired his Winchester at point-blank range.

The heavy slug caught the Apache squarely in the chest and he fell back. Will fired again, then turned and clubbed his rifle at one who was fighting desperately with the wounded Gates, who had only one useful hand. The butt caught the Apache behind the neck and he went down, his skull crushed right at the top of the spine.

The two Apaches were tossed over the rocks. The remaining one of the three was backed against the rocks with Bridger Downs's .44 jammed into his belly.

"Hold him, Bridger," Reilly said. "We mustn't let him go to warn the others. Our boys haven't had time to get around to the other end of the pass. If he gets away and tells the others about all the rifles and ammunition we've got, they'll know it's a trap."

The drummer was quick. "We'd better send up the signal for the attack. As for him"--he gestured toward the Indian and drew his knife--"we'd better let him abscond right here."

The Apache lunged suddenly, springing to the top of the rocks, then leaping over. Reilly fired a shot in the air, and let him go.

"Let's hope it works," the drummer said. He glanced at Bridger. "I had to trust you knew what abscond meant, and I was sure the Indian would not."

Bridger Downs spat, and gave the drummer a hard look. "I know what abscond means, my friend, and if I was you I'd forget what it means."

The drummer smiled. "Of course. This is all among friends, isn't it?"

There was a sudden rattle of horses' hoofs, and they saw the dust of the fleeing Apaches. The trick had worked.

"Come on." Will Reilly got to his feet. "We'd better go while the going is good."

"Just for luck," Gates suggested, "throw a fire together. The signal smoke will sort of help them along."

Sponseller came down from the rocks. He had a bullet burn along his ribs, but was otherwise unhurt. He helped get the horses ready, and when they were all mounted up they moved out, three of the horses carrying double.

It was a good fifty miles to Ralston's, and Val never forgot that ride, nor the walking he did on the way.

After that it was Silver City, where Val went riding with Billy, the son of the woman who kept the boarding house. Dobie was with them, too. They raced their horses through the streets and out into the hills beyond the town.

"You people stayin' around?" Billy asked.

"Nope," Dobie said. "Ma's going over to Las Vegas. Her sister--my aunt--lives there. Ever since pa died we been traipsin'."

"You better hope your ma doesn't marry again," Billy said. "Mine did, and he's drunk most of the time. He beats me when he can lay hold of me ... which ain't often."

"We're going to El Paso," Val said. "Maybe to New Orleans."

They circled around the town and came in from the other side, talking about Indians. "I never seen any real wild Injuns," Billy said. "There was some in Kansas folks said had been wild a while back, but the ones in Colorado were mostly just hanging around."

After supper they stood outside the Antrim House and Ash Upson talked to the boys. "A pleasure," he said, "a real pleasure to talk to Will Reilly. It isn't often we find anyone with his knowledge of literature. He's an admirer of Scott, as I am."

The other boys did not know who Scott was, but Val recalled Will's mention of him. After a while Will came out. "We're leaving tomorrow, Val."

Then came a week in El Paso, three days in San Antonio, and a ride on a steamboat from Indianola, Texas, to New Orleans. It was a fortunate time for Will Reilly. The cards ran his way, and he played them carefully, arriving in New Orleans three thousand dollars richer than when he left Tucson.

After that there was Mobile, Savannah, Charleston, Philadelphia, and New York ...

And then a year in Europe. Val was growing taller and stronger, and he learned to speak French, picked up some German and Italian. As they traveled, Will Reilly gambled in every city in which they stayed. Yet sometimes weeks would pass during which he would not touch a deck of cards, nor enter a gambling hall, though even during such times he never really released himself from the hold of gambling.

His wagers were polite ones, developed during conversations, and often evolving from some casual discussion of history or genealogies; on these, too, he was well informed. Often the fact that he was an American gave his antagonists greater confidence, as did his manner, which was almost apologetic, though insistent at such times. Somehow--and Val often wondered how it happened--it was always Will who was challenged. But Will Reilly was not a man to allow himself to grow slack in his physical condition. He boxed, he fenced, he went to shooting galleries, he rode horseback, he wrestled.

But Will Reilly was changing. They were in Innsbruck now, and one night after midnight he returned from the gaming rooms in a black mood. He threw a handful of money on the table in their room. The gesture was one of irritation, even of disgust.